THE BAD BOY AND THE CHEERLEADER

THE BAD BOY AND THE CHEERLEADER - CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 48: 

CALEB’S  POV: 

END OF NOVEMBER - (one month down, nine to go)

“ . . . and I get locked up. They won’t let me out, they won’t let me out. I’m locked up.  They won’t let me out no, they won’t let me ou---”

“Shut the hell up, Ian!” I scream at the top of my lungs, cutting off Ian‘s singing.  “How the hell did your lawyer get us in the same cell, anyways?”

“Money,” he answers as if it‘s so simple, “A hefty donation from one of my father’s charity foundations to the Colorado Division of Youth Corrections.  You don’t have to thank me, roomie.  But, I’ll take your dessert at dinnertime.”

“Well, he was doing me a disservice.”  Irritated by him and this whole miserable situation, I pace back and forth in our tiny space. 

He sits up and hangs his legs over the side of the top bunk.  “She’ll write.”

“It’s been a month,” I say in a pathetic tone.  I’ve whined everyday for the past two weeks about not receiving a letter back from Gianna.  Started writing her the first day I was sent here, sending them to Dante’s address for him to give to her, since I don’t know her new address in Denver yet.  

“It’s only been a month.  Give her time, she has a lot to adjust to,” Ian says calmly. 

“Adjust to?” I ask in disbelief.  “As if I haven’t had a lot to adjust to, myself?”

Laughing, he shakes his head, “Just be grateful the judge didn’t send us to one of those private youth corrections places where they make us live on a farm, milking cows and shoveling shit.”

I spread my arms out wide, “Yes, this here is really living!”

“Such a drama queen,” Ian drawls out slowly.  He hops down from the top bunk and walks past me, out the door of our open cell, “I’m off to lunch.  We only have twenty minutes till we have to be to our next class.”

“I’m coming,” I mutter reluctantly, following him out.  Not really in the mood to eat, but not about to waste away on top of everything else.  Grabbing a tray and accepting what the facility is so generously offering us delinquents, I sit down with Ian at a half-empty table. 

I look around at the guards stationed are the doorways.  We’re always being watched, except for when we’re locked in our cages, of course.  There’s guards to escort us everywhere.  Most of the time, I just pretend they’re not there, posted various places or following us around.  Usually works too.  At this point, I don’t need to be reminded where I need to be and when. 

We haven’t really socialized much with the other prisoners, Ian and me being new ‘besties’ and all.  Although, we have made friends with this guy named Ricky Moreno, who says he’s in here for hacking into a government website.  I say he’s full of crap, Ian thinks so too.  Other than being a liar, the kid’s alright. 

Being stuck here is like being perpetually at school.  The food is even the same.  Ian finishes eating first and picks up his tray while standing up, “I’m going to class.  Have fun in Arts & Crafts therapy.”

“It’s Art class, dumbshit!” I call out after his retreating back.  Seeing his shoulders shake, I know he’s laughing at my expense.  He should watch it, though, cause I know where he sleeps. 

Going into the art room, I feel like such a loser.  There are boys in here anywhere from twelve to seventeen years old.  I set up an easel next to a kid that can’t be older than thirteen.  Little brat better not try to copy off me. 

Ms. Singh, an art professor from Colorado State University, comes in twice a week to do volunteer work with us troubled youth.  All-in-all, she’s actually pretty nice.  The fact that a prison guard has to stand in the room the entire time she’s here and escort her in and out of the facility makes me feel like Hannibal Lecter, though.

Guess who her favorite student is?  Well, it isn’t the little punk painting stick figures next to me.  As always, by the end of the hour, Ms. Singh is praising my genius, using the words, ‘natural talent’ and ‘amazing’.  Thank you, thank you, you’re too kind. 

I pass Ian on the way to my next class, Health, the class that he just got out of.  I know that this time of day is when he meets with the psychiatrist, so I mock him, “Have fun talking about your daddy issues.”

He bumps his shoulder against mine, “At least I don’t have an Oedipus complex when it comes to my step-mom.”

“Narcissus!” I call out as he’s walking away. 

“And not ashamed to admit it!” he calls out over his shoulder.  Shoulders shaking once again as he walks away.  Sometimes, I actually like the guy. 

At Health class, they show us pictures of people with STDs.  Nice.  I already went through this in health class in the ninth grade.  There’s a junior high age kid whose eyes are bugging out during the slides.  Damn, they’re gonna make the kid too scared to lose his virginity.  I’m glad I got that accomplished before the ninth grade.  I think it may have been around his age actually.  That just seems so wrong now. 

In the mornings, after we shower and eat breakfast, they sit us all in computer labs and classrooms, teaching us the main subjects of academics, English, Math, Science, etcetera, etcetera.  Most of it’s done on the computer and I think I actually absorb more than I did at my old high schools.  For one thing, there are no girls to pay more attention to.  As pretty as Ian thinks he is, he just doesn’t quite do it for me. 

Actually, I feel even more sorry for him than I do for me.  At least my parents care about me.  My mom and dad have visited me twice.  Together.  Which is still weird for me.  Ian’s dad doesn’t even answer when he calls home, or when he tries his dad’s cell.  After going through the motions, he always uses the rest of his phone time to call ex-girlfriends.  One time, I passed by when he was on the phone, and I swear he was getting the girl to talk dirty to him.  I literally gagged.

I dream about Gianna.  All types of things about her, all types of situations.  Sometimes, the dreams are based on things that really happened.  Like when we went tagging, except in my dream, we got caught by the cops.  Sometimes the dreams are kind of unrealistic, like us getting married. 

The nightmares I have about her are the ones that I hate.  One of them was me crying at her funeral.  Another was me getting out of juvie to find out that she had fallen in love with someone else.  I usually don’t sleep much for the rest of the night when I have those kind of dreams. 

After health, it’s my turn with a shrink.  Since taxpayers are paying for my therapy, I figure I might as well take full advantage.  And take advantage, I do.  My therapist is going to be so tired of hearing me bitch about Julie by the time the ten months are up.  Maybe I’ll be let out early just so they can get rid of me.  The thought gives me hope.

I meet with the psychiatrist for individual therapy three times a week, Monday, Wednesday and Thursday.  My group therapy is once a week on Friday afternoons.  Thank God Ian does group therapy a different day. 

Of course, the shrink insists on talking about my parents, their marital problems before the divorce and how the divorce affected me, as their child.  Blah, blah, blah.  I’m from a broken home, poor me.  I got into so much trouble because I didn’t have a father in the house.  Bull.  I’m actually damn offended when my therapist goes this route, because it’s like saying that my mom wasn’t a good enough parent by herself.  This isn’t true at all, I was just a freaking selfish brat. 

And, just about every session, we talk about what happened with Josh.  I still get angry.

So far, I have been reluctant to talk much about Gianna directly.  I feel like what we had, have, is private. Those memories are for my mind only.  After a whole month with no letter from Gianna and not having her new cell number yet, I break down to the therapist, Dr. Erica Adler, and whine and moan about my hurt feelings and anxiety about the future of our relationship.  At the end of our session, I’m practically crying and feel like a dumbass. 

I hightail it out of there and a guard takes me back to my cell for pre-dinner check-in.  Ian’s there, looking sullen.  Maybe his earlier session didn’t go so well either.  I feel bad about my ‘daddy issues’ comment earlier.  “Hey man,” I give him a nod in greeting. 

“I’m hungry,” he mutters grumpily.  “I hate how they let us go to lunch on our own, but make us wait until everyone checks in to go to dinner.”

I rub my stomach, lifting up the plain white cotton shirt they give us, standard-issue.  To go with them is a pair of blue drawstring pants.  At least the plain white tennis shoes aren’t too bad, comfortable, if not a little generic.  Ian called them ‘poor people shoes’ when they were first issued to us.  I laughed and told him no more name brands for him. 

After dinner, they give us an hour outside.  I usually play basketball and it’s cold as hell this time of year, but I relish the sense of freedom, pretending that I’m still in charge of my own life.  Besides, with the thick workman’s style coats they give us to wear, it’s not so bad.  During the day on Saturdays and Sundays, if we don’t have visitors, they give us the option of either being outside or watching movies in the TV room.  Since the movies are usually PG, with an occasional PG-13 thrown in, I usually decline and go outside to get some sun.  I always beat Ian when playing one-on-one hoops, which makes it that much more enjoyable.  Ian has proven that a guy can work out all he wants, but having muscles doesn’t make you athletic.

When we get back to our cell after ‘recess’, there’s a letter sitting on my bed.  Walking over to it, I start to get excited.  Seeing it at the same time as me, Ian lets out a big sigh and dramatically says, “Thank you God!  Now the boy can stop whining like a five-year-old girl!”

Ignoring him, I plop down on the bottom bunk.  Ian gets up on his bunk and I hear a rustling of papers.  I stick my head out, “You got a letter too?”

He grunts, “Yeah, my shrink signed me up for some pen-pal program with a church youth group.  Some bible thumper chick has started writing me.  Her trying to save my eternal soul through letters should be interesting.” 

I flip Gianna’s letter through my fingers as I listen to him talk, both anxious and afraid to open it at the same time.  “Not even Jesus could save your soul, Ian.”

“Get this,” Ian starts, then in a girly voice, says, “Reading your profile, I realize that you need a spiritual friend.”  He laughs, “Oh brother.  Caleb, do you need a spiritual friend?”

I don’t remind him that I’ve started attending the Sunday morning church services given by a non-denominational preacher that they bring in.  I laugh along with him, but I’m not really feeling it.  Paying more attention to Gianna’s sloppy handwriting on the envelope. 

Ian continues on with reading the letter, “Blah, blah, blah.  I’m fifteen years old.  Blah, blah, blah.  My favorite band is Death Cab For Cutie.  I live downtown Denver with my grandmother and sister.”  He’s quiet for a moment, “Get this, I’m not allowed to tell you my last name because you’re a criminal and all.”  Sounding offended, Ian complains, “And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

“What’s her first name?”

“Alexandra,” Ian answers and says no more.  Obviously getting more interested in the letter, despite himself.   

Finally getting the courage, I tear open the envelope and pull out Gianna’s letter.  Written on binder paper, in blue pen, I wonder at the sloppy handwriting . . .

Dear Caleb,

I’m sorry if this is hard to read, but I still have the cast on my right hand /wrist, so I’m writing this using my left hand.  I suck at it.  My jaw is completely healed now and I invited Cece over yesterday to see my dad’s new house in Englewood.  It’s weird living in the suburbs south of Denver now, but I like the change.  Chance is enrolled in a new elementary school and he sees my mom every weekend, cause he misses her.  I only see her the mandatory every other weekend, cause I don’t miss her. 

I do miss you, though.  I’m sorry I didn’t write you sooner, but I’ve been so busy with everything. The new school, taking care of Chance until my dad comes home from work and until my left cast came off, it was hard to write.  By the way, my new cell number is 303-426-7466.  You can call me whenever they let you, and if I’m not in class, I’ll answer. 

Anyways, Cece came over yesterday and gave me the letters that you sent through Dante.  With this letter, you’ll have my new address.  Don’t worry, my dad won’t have a problem with you sending me letters here. 

I don’t know if I can say it enough, but I am so, so sorry about everything that’s happened.  I feel like I’ve ruined your life.  I can’t believe you’d even want anything to do with me anymore.  I cried when I read your letters.  It sounds horrible there and it’s all my fault you’re in that place.  Ian too.  Tell him I’m sorry.  If I hadn’t been so stupid, you two wouldn’t be stuck there. 

I’ve decided not to join cheerleading at my new school.  I just can’t.  But when my other wrist heals, I’m going back to the crew.  I told Cece that I had a cheerleading accident and that’s why I’m all jacked up.  I don’t want anyone else to know. 

I’ll understand if you want to break up.  I don’t think I’d make a very good girlfriend anymore.  You deserve better anyways.  Someone who’s not so messed up.  Whatever you want to do about us, I’ll accept it.

I’m glad they have art class for you, you’re so talented.  You’re psychiatrist sounds like a pain in the butt.  She isn’t going to read this, is she?  I may be a little prejudiced when it comes to psychiatrists now, mine won’t shut up and leave me alone.  I told my dad I don’t want to go anymore, but he insists.

I can’t wait to go back to dancing with the crew.  I just want my life to be the way it used to be.  I don’t want to be the center of attention anymore.  I’m tired of everyone worrying so much about me.  I’m fine, really, but no one believes me.

I still love you, Caleb, but I just don’t know anymore.  Maybe we should breakup.  Things are so messed up.  Both of our lives have been turned upside down.  So much has happened.  I mean, you’ll be in there for another nine months still.  That’s a long time.  How will things be between us then?  But, like I said, whatever you want.  Whatever you need. 

I hope you can forgive me for ruining everything.

I don’t feel like myself.  I don’t like how I feel, but I don’t know how to stop feeling this way.  I just want to feel like I used to.  I want everything back to normal. 

Love you,
Gianna

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